


Hour of the Worg

by BlueForestFox



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft (Comics), World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Gen, Post-World of Warcraft: The Burning Crusade, Warcraft Lore, World of Warcraft: Wrath of the Lich King
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 02:37:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14990936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueForestFox/pseuds/BlueForestFox
Summary: As if it's not enough that Arthas and the Scourge stand poised to destroy all life in Azeroth, now strange beasts are loose in Grizzly Hills. Towns have darkened, the roads are no longer safe for travelers, and dark creatures are roaming the wild. Rumors grow of a 'Wolf Cult' and the return of an ancient enemy. Follow a handful adventurers on their quest to find the origin of these mysterious events, as they seek out a survivor named Sasha, and race against time to stop the curse of the worgen from spreading. Based on the 'Hour of the Worg' questline.





	Hour of the Worg

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all, this is my first posted fic. It will probably make more sense if you are familiar with the quests, but will hopefully be an enjoyable read regardless. Though the original characters are Alliance oriented, I explored the actual quests on Horde, so expect a bit of deviation from the original. Looking for feedback. Hope you like it. :)

Bran clenched his teeth as the torch he was holding gave one last desperate sputter and went out. As if on cue, another howl sounded, closer this time and off to the right, sending a prickle through the hair on his neck. He let the smoldering torch drop into the dirt, wrapping both hands so tightly around the handle of his sword that the leather of his gloves gave a muffled squeak of protest.

“ _things that got bump in the night._ ” He muttered, keeping his back to the wagon, relying now on the small patches of light cast by the torches affixed to its corners. His eyes strained in the dark, occasionally catching a glint of light as the torches were reflected in the eyes of the unwanted company. It was impossible to tell how many there were, and Bran’s mind had already begun to conjure hideous shapes beyond number in the dark. He held his blade before him like a bulwark, feeling the comfort of its familiar weight, digging the heels of his boots into the earth. They weren’t going anywhere anytime soon. Even still, that fact didn’t seem to distress Jorr in the slightest, he hadn’t even bothered to get out of the driver’s seat. Peering for a moment over his shoulder, Bran could see the dwarf’s bright red hair over the rim of the cart, and see the reins still wrapped around a gloved hand. Jorr had thankfully kept the horses from spooking when they discovered their path was blocked, though now he had to mutter a stream of assurances to keep the animals from bolting. Oren shouted something from the other side of the wagon, but between the neighing of the horses and the yells of those around him, Bran couldn’t hear a word of it.

Something in the shadows drew too close for comfort, snuffling in the dark. Bran caught a glimpse of eyes, as the creature let out a growl, the lips of its snout pulling back and revealing a row of sharp teeth. Bran sucked in air, wished silently that he still had a burning torch, and hoped that a few swings of his sword would suffice as a deterrent. The creature’s dark form lurked for a moment longer on the edge of the torchlight before retreating back into the shadows.

“Oi! Jorr!” Gryth called and appeared near the front of the wagon. He looked almost identical to his brother, but his fiery red hair and beard were thicker, and braided with interwoven metal bands. The light from the torches glinted on them as he moved, pushing his cloak aside and hefting a large axe on his shoulder. “We cannae make it through on the road. Some o’ the lads and I are going ‘round to the root end o’ this tree, see if we can take the wagon that way.”

Jorr grunted something in response, but Bran didn’t catch it, his attention had been snagged by the appearance of Wyla. She had stepped silently around the back of the wagon and come up on his right like a shadow. Both her hands were occupied with her bow, an arrow knocked and the wooden frame bent ever so slightly. Bran again wished the torches on the wagon could cast their glow further. Wyla, an elf, may have had little need for a torch, but his human eyes still couldn’t discern much beyond the golden circle of light in which he stood. She edged close enough for low conversation, her golden eyed gaze turned towards the dark trees.

“What are they?” Bran hissed, as he hefted his sword.

“They look like wolves.” The night elf brushed a strand of pure white hair from her face and pulled her bow up as one of the shadowy shapes drew close.

“Awfully big wolves.” He muttered, and watched the shape test the edge of the torches light, its eyes flickering.

“And awfully smart.” She lowered her bow as the creature withdrew. Bran gave her a questioning look. She continued in explanation, “Gryth and Almec said the tree had been cut. They just returned from checking.”

“What? I thought the winds brought it down.You think someone intended to stop us?” As he asked, Bran watched Oren, Almec and Gryth, their torches illuminating their forms like strange shadows, heavy cloaks like smoke in the wind. The two men and the dwarf walked along the fallen form of the tree, until those that still stood upright hid them from view.

“Someone.” Wyla lowered her bow as Jorr called to the panicking horses and slowly started the wagon heading off the road and along the body of the tree. Bran waited with the elf until they could step in behind, walking backwards, eyes to the woods at their flank. Wyla gave a meaningful glance into the darkness. “Someone, or something.” There was another howl, and Bran felt a shiver run up his spine.

The wagon moved quickly enough off the road, the stubby grass and hard packed earth of the alpine climate made travel easier. It was only a few moments before they could see the end of the tree, and Bran glanced over his shoulder to catch sight of where the others stood in a small pool of light. Gryth, his stout dwarven form gesturing to them, hollered over the neighing of the horses.

“Jorr, bring ‘er down here. We can take it ‘round.” No sooner had he spoke when there was a shout and a sharp yelp. One of the beasts had braved the torchlight and leapt at Oren.

“Hurry!” Almec called as Jorr urged the horses forward, Bran and Wyla close behind. Once they were within a few yards of the end of the tree Wyla darted towards where the others stood. Bran remained as rear guard, though the beasts seemed more interested in attacking the front, and already two more had made lunges at the horses

“Keep moving!” Almec shouted as he and Oren moved to help Bran protect the wagon. There was the familiar twang of Wyla’s bow, accompanied by another yelp. They rounded the bottom of the tree and broke for the road again, Jorr increasing their speed to a trot while pulling hard on the reins in an effort to keep the horses from spooking, their heads high and their eyes wide. The wagon jostled and bounced on the rough ground as they moved, Bran jogging alongside with Almec just ahead. They had almost reached the road when something flew out of the darkness just beyond Bran’s reach. He didn’t even have time to shout a warning before it slammed into Almec’s back. The tall man grunted and hit the side of the wagon, hard, a dark snarling shape on top of him. It only took a moment for Bran to come in striking distance, and he swung his sword to catch in the back of the creature. There was a loud anguished howl. His blow went clean and hadn’t struck bone. He swung again, but the beast had already turned to flee, and the blow could only glance as his quarry fled back into the dark.

He knelt and helped pull Almec to his feet, and already the two of them had to move quick to keep up with the wagon.

“Thanks boy.” Almec grunted unsympathetically. The tall man had only made it a few steps when Bran heard him let out a hiss of pain. Still walking briskly, he swept his cloak aside to examine several deep rips in his thick leather jerkin. Torchlight glistened on the blood that had already begun to seep through the ragged edges.

“Almec---”

“Just a scratch.” Almec muttered, and moved to the front of the wagon as the ground leveled out and they turned onto the road once more. He heaved himself up into the drivers seat beside Jorr as the dwarf urged the horses on. Bran continued to walk, his body turned out and sword at the ready. Though he could still see occasional pairs of eyes, the howling had stopped.

“Bran.” Wyla spoke from somewhere above him and gave him a start. She had climbed back into the wagon and was leaning on the edge. “They stopped.” She was right. The woods had gone from loud and hideous to uncomfortably silent in a few short minutes. He continued to watch the eyes, though already they were becoming less numerous.

“Everyone is back on the wagon. Except Oren. He’s on the other side. I think it’s safe to come up.” Her tone was relatively flat but not unfriendly. She offered a hand up in a businesslike fashion.

“Thank you. I think I’d like to walk for a bit longer.” He eyed her outstretched hand as he spoke. She nodded and turned to sit among the barrels and crates in the wagon. Having an elf was of great benefit, and more often than not she could discern a threat before the rest of them, and know that danger had passed before the others were ready to let down their guard. Bran used the filthy bottom of his heavy cloak to wipe the blood from his sword before sliding it with ease into the leather scabbard that crossed his back. He kept his eyes turned to the forest, though now all that could be heard was the creak and trundle of the wagon, along with an occasional nervous wicker from one of the horses. Gryth and Jorr spoke in low, rough tones as Bran walked in the dim torchlight. The woods had returned to the nights he had come to know, a soft wind setting the pine needles to whisper, and an occasional patch in the trees exposing the moon as clouds danced across it. In the wake of the attack, a calm night that normally would have brought comfort carried an eerie edge instead. Their party was ill at ease, and their eyes still searched the shadows among the trees. Bran flexed his fingers as he walked until the prickle of the fight had left them. They wouldn’t sleep tonight.

 

 

The grey light of dawn had already cast a shadow from the mountains, and begun to bring birdsong through the chill air when the wagon reached the Westfall Brigade encampment. The trees had begun to thin, meadows opening along the meandering road, and already the camp was waking. Smoke rose from fires, the thick canvas of tents fluttered lightly in the breeze, and somewhere a blacksmith’s hammer sounded. Bran hadn’t calmed his nerves enough to sit, and had passed the rest of the night alongside the creaking wagon. His steps were now heavy, his eyes a bit bleary, as they pulled up past the guards and into the fence-ringed camp. Jorr, rifle in one hand, slid down and led the horses to the stables. Gryth, like his brother looking none the worse for wear, joined the small group of soldiers who had gathered to help unload supplies. Steam rose from the breath of animal and man alike, and sound seemed sharp and clear in the morning light. Amidst the movement and shouts, Bran tried to find his way to Almec. Instead he found Wyla, or rather, she found him.

“They can finish unloading.” She put a hand on his shoulder as she spoke, as if to turn him in the direction of the tents.

“But Almec---”

“He’s already on his way to the medic. Oren went with him.” Her assurance did little to dissuade him, and still he stood fast.

“We should be there when they talk to Captain Stoutmantle, I want to hear what---”

“Bran.” Her tone had hardened enough that he turned to look her in the eyes. “No one is talking to the captain until we get some rest and food. They set some tents near the treeline for us. It’s not yet full sunrise. We should get some sleep.” Having spoken her part, Wyla slowly walked past him towards the tents, threading between soldiers. Bran stood a moment longer, staring up at the larger tents on the hill, before letting out a heavy sigh and turning to follow the elf.

The tents were small but not ungenerous. Bran didn’t even bother stripping but simply undid his sword straps and pulled off his cloak before lying flat, grateful to be horizontal and surprised by how much more exhausted it suddenly made him feel. Despite the noises of the camp, he was soon fast asleep.

He woke with a jerk. he couldn’t have guessed how long he’d slept. He had passed suddenly from a shadowy nightmare to the bright light of mid afternoon, and the effect was more than a little disorienting. He lie still for some time, eyes on the canvas above his head, and pieced together the events of the previous night. It was when he remembered the meeting with the captain that he was filled with enough of a sense of urgency to sit up. There was a small basin of water and a piece of flattened metal that served as a mirror on one of the tent posts. He took a moment to examine himself, in the hopes of appearing somewhat presentable before an Alliance officer. He was quite dirty from the days it took to travel from Amberpine Lodge to the encampment, not to mention he was in need of a shave. His five o’ clock shadow would soon resemble something more of a beard, and he could use a haircut. His dark brown locks had grown thick and loose, though thankfully still shy of covering his eyes. He splashed several handfuls of chill water on his face and neck before pulling his boots back on and strapping his sword across his back. He decided it was warm enough without his cloak, the leather of his jerkin and pants doing much to keep the chill air at bay.

When he finally emerged he had to squint for a moment as his eyes adjusted, before he could take in his surroundings with more appreciation. The camp was bordered in wooden fencing, occasional guards with rifles walking along its edge. At each of the two gates there was a large watchtower, wooden frames standing high, flags caught in the wind. The tents were all clustered on a flat space in a large meadow, next to a small hill that backed against the trees. The stables, blacksmith and officers tents stood there against the backdrop of the forest. Away to the south, amid the high tops of redwoods and pines, the snowy mountains glistened in the afternoon light, the air rich with the smell of evergreens and chill earth.

It didn’t take long to reach the main part of the camp, and Bran searched for familiar faces as he threaded his way between soldiers and stable hands. The supplies that they had brought seemed to have been badly needed, and already most of them had been distributed amidst the camp. Finally Bran caught sight of Almec, his tall lanky form accompanied by the more compact figure of Oren. The two were fortunately easy to pick out in a crowd, Almec’s dark head of hair rising above almost everyone else’s, the spear across his back like a flag. He was running a gloved hand over his thick beard when Bran approached.

“Glad you got some rest.” It was Oren who spoke, giving him a curt and assessing nod.

“Have you spoken with the Captain yet?” As he asked, Bran figured there were more polite ways to start a conversation but patience was in short supply.

“We’re about to. Just waiting for…..here she comes.” As he spoke, Almec’s gaze had flicked past Bran, to where Wyla approached, her white hair and elven gait giving her an air of grace despite the dirt covering her leather armor. She fell in beside them as they walked the last short distance up the hill to the officer’s tent.

“Jorr and Gryth?” Bran asked as they neared the tent.

“Busy inspecting the quality of what the mess tent is producing.” Wyla answered with a wry smile that Bran couldn’t help but return. The four of them entered the tent.

Captain Gryan Stoutmantle could be a blunt man at the best of times, and he was deep in what appeared to be a somewhat heated conversation with a group of dark haired dwarves.

“---yes, I am doing what I can, now would you please tell---” He broke off as he spotted the newcomers. “Tell him I’ll send more as soon as it’s available. Now if you will excuse me.” He gestured to the tent’s opening, and the dwarves left wearing somewhat stormy expressions. Stoutmantle regained his composure and shifted himself to stand a little taller as Almec and the others approached. He looked slightly comical in all his heavy plate armor, squared up in front of Almec, who stood almost a full head taller. For his appearance, the Captain could have been Oren’s twin had his face been slightly more square. They both had the same chalky grey hair and beard, though in Oren’s case, accompanied by the thick fur collar of his cloak, it gave him the appearance of a disgruntled old bear. Oren gave a grunt and unslung the heavy plate shield from his back, dropping it with a clang on the table where the maps of Grizzly Hills had been laid out. Amidst the many nicks and dents that scored its surface, the lions head emblem now almost invisible, a row of slash marks stood out, the scrapes bright and fresh.

“That,” Oren pointed a thick gloved finger, “is why we are here.” The Captain glanced at the shield with a look of slight distaste, and slid it carefully off of the largest of the maps.

“I’d heard about the attack. Not altogether unexpected but still unfortunate. You certainly earned your pay.” Stoutmantle reached into a small chest on the corner of the table as he spoke and tossed a heavy jingling sack to Almec. “I had a feeling your group would manage the trip. Not many mercenaries are veterans, but you can’t beat that sort of training.” His eyes flicked to Oren.

“We aren’t just here to get paid. Something needs to be done about the attacks.” Oren spoke gruffly, and Bran was surprised to find him so talkative. Almec usually handled negotiations but he stood silent, one hand firmly gripping the bag of coins.

“Listen, you got the supplies here. That’s the important thing. You’re the first caravan to successfully make the journey from Amberpine in two weeks. We were running low. Now that I know you can do it, I’m more than happy to arrange a business contract.” Stoutmantle examined the map as he spoke, passing a hand over the aged paper where the icon of Amberpine Lodge had been drawn.

“You need to do something about the attacks.” Oren spoke flatly and Bran could see Almec wince slightly. Gryan’s eyes snapped up.

“Do something? Do you have any idea what’s going on here? This is a camp, not an outpost, and it’s not well defended to say the least. This is the only Alliance camp between Amberpine and the coast, and there is a Horde encampment right over those far hills.” He pointed vaguely to the south-east. “All I _need_ to do is make sure the supplies get here. I don’t have the time or the men to spare fighting a pack of wolves.”

“Wolves?” It was Wyla who’d spoken. “You think this was wolves?” She pointed to the marks on Oren’s shield, then to Almec, who’s still ripped tunic exposed a layer of fresh bandages underneath. As if to support her point, Oren pulled the leather of one of his tunic sleeves back, exposing a place in his chainmail that had been torn through.

“Wolves don’t rip mail.” He let his sleeve fall back down.

“Wolves don’t cut down trees either.” Wyla crossed her arms, and if nothing else, her comment succeeded in eliciting a puzzled look from the Captain.

“‘Cut down trees”? What’s that supposed to mean?” He fixed her with a look somewhere between questioning and accusatory.

“There was a tree that had been cut to block our path. It had been done after dark as well. It was standing when I rode through to scout ahead.” Her tone and expression betrayed absolutely nothing, but Bran could feel a slight tension building in the air. Gryan eyed her a moment longer, then passed his gaze over each of them, before sighing and shrugging.

“Listen, I have more to worry about than bandits blocking roads and wild animals. Almec, I’ll continue to pay you for your troubles. Gather your men and bring another shipment as soon as you can.” All eyes turned to Almec, who hesitated a moment before giving a soundless nod, and walking out of the tent. Bran’s mouth had fallen open slightly as he stared after their leader. Oren held a steely glare with Stoutmantle before picking up his shield, slinging it over his back, and exiting the tent with a loud snap of canvas flaps. Wyla followed, leaving Bran alone, still too wrapped up in the conversation that had transpired.

Almec had simply left. He’d seemed surprisingly unconcerned with almost having his ribs torn out by who knows what kind of creature, let alone that they were going to do it all again.

“You’re a little young for this sort of work.” Gryan’s voice snapped him out of his confusion, and he looked to where the Captain was bending over the maps. “Wouldn’t think someone your age would be hard enough for this sort of business. Or this sort of place. You look like more of the Stormwind guard type.” Bran waited to respond until the silence had gone long enough that Gryan looked up.

“Age isn’t always the same as experience.” He answered flatly. Once such a comment might have bothered him to no end. He had begun to get used to it now. Gryan eyed him thoughtfully.

“Where you from lad?”

“Redridge.” Bran turned to face the Captain more directly, standing as tall as he could manage.

“I see. Not an easy place that. Orcs. Gnolls.”

 _“Things that go bump in the night_.” Bran spoke too softly to be heard, remembering the words he’d grown up with.

“Suppose that’s why you’ve done alright out here.” Gryan picked up one of the maps and stared at it.

“Part of why.” Bran couldn’t keep an edge from his voice as he gave a meaningful glance to the handle of his sword, rising above his right shoulder. Gryan gave a small and only slightly patronizing nod.

“I wish there was more could be done. For now it’s down to you and your companions. Keep those wagons safe.” And with that Captain Stoutmantle turned his attention altogether to the table before him, leaving Bran to stare a moment longer before turning and walking from the tent.

He found the others at the mess tent, clustered around a small table. The smell of cooked meat and bread was painfully tantalizing, setting his stomach growling as he sat on the bench next to Wyla and Gryth. Jorr, Almec and Oren sat across from them, most in the midst of eating, both of the dwarves appearing to be on their third course. Gryth passed a bowl of stew sideways to Bran, who leapt on it immediately and ate with a vengeance despite burning his tongue with the heat of it. He helped himself to a hunk of dark bread and a mug of ale be finally turned his eyes to Almec.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” Almec grunted over the wooden rim of his mug.

“We’re just going back out and doing it again? What about--”

“Enough. Bran enough. You heard the captain. There’s nothing to be done. We have to protect the shipments. I understand if you’re frightened of the wolves and you want to leave the contract. There’s nothing stopping you.” Almec sounded weary and disinterested. Bran felt a rush of heat prickle up the back of his neck. He clenched his fists as he spoke.

“I’m not afraid. I just think a more permanent solution is needed. I’m good in a fight. Even you said it.”

“Aye. I did.” Almec fixed a steady look on Bran as he spoke around a mouthful of bread. “You’re a good fighter. That’s why I picked you despite your age.” At the word ‘age’ a muscle jumped in Bran’s jaw. “Your attitude, however, is irksome at the best of times. One of these days you’ll need to learn the value of listening to those with more experience and rank instead of your own hot-winded opinions.” Bran couldn’t help it. At that he stood up, shaking the table slightly, and glared. He was too busy looking at Almec to realize that all the others had stopped eating. After a long and tense silence, Oren reached across the table and gave a tug on Bran’s wrist.

“Have a seat lad.” Oren’s voice was surprisingly gentle, but it was the lack of a condescending air that made Bran comfortable enough to do as suggested. He sat heavily.

“Almec, I have to say, he has a point. A long term solution is going to be needed. We don’t even know what these things are, but as long as they’re out there, the wagon trail isn’t safe. Not for anyone.” Oren looked sideways at Almec as he spoke, and Almec responded with a heavy sigh.

“We are here to get paid. I don’t mind killing some beasts if that’s what’s required. We have a job to protect the wagons.”

“I think this is more important than money.” Wyla spoke from the end of the table. A long silence followed, punctuated by an occasional belch from one of the dwarves, as many of the party members around the table exchanged glances. Finally Almec stood.

“I’m riding back to Amberpine, I’ll round up a few hands, and guard the next wagon. Those who come with me will get their cut. The rest of you, do as you please, but don’t look for me to get my gizzard ripped out on a payless vanity quest.” His voice carried a bitter edge, and no sooner had he finished speaking, than he turned and walked off into the camp. Silence reigned once more, broken only when the two dwarves stood.

“Well, it sounds like ye won’t be comin’ with us. In that case, best to you all.” Jorr gave a small bow as he spoke.

“If ye do go on a wild beast hunt, be careful. I’d reckon I wouldn’t mind seeing you lot around these parts in the future.” Gryth gave a broad smile and clapped Bran heavily on the back before following his brother out of the mess tent. Oren set down his mug with an air of finality and leaned back with a grunt.

“Well. Looks like it’s us three then.” He looked at Wyla and Bran in turn as he spoke. “Hardly the king’s army.” It was as close to cracking a proper joke he ever got. There was a slightly downcast feeling to the air as they all sat. Bran pulled the knife from his belt and started digging the tip of it into the table in attempt to dissipate the feeling of frustrated edginess the morning seemed intent on delivering. It was Wyla who finally spoke, and only after a long silence filled with the repeated ‘thunk’ of Bran’s dagger.

“I think I know where we can find some answers.” At that, Oren raised an eyebrow and Bran sheathed his knife to listen. “This isn’t the only case of these strange creatures. Do you know the trapping village of Silverbook? To the northwest?” She kept her voice low.

“Yes.” Both Oren and Bran answered in unison.

“Something’s happened there. All trade lines have stopped, and anyone who ventures there has disappeared. There’s been talk of…..” she paused and glanced over her shoulder in a way that made both the men lean slightly closer to her, “monsters.” She finished. Bran felt a slight chill run down his spine, but Oren seemed unperturbed.

“Folk in these places will say a lot of things. I’ve seen bears the size of wagon carts.” Oren grumbled. “We all have seen the Scourge, hard to define monsters when you see the dead walk.” He had a good point, admittedly.

“Not to mention Silverbrook is quite a ways to travel on rumor.” Bran scratched his cheek thoughtfully as he spoke.

“There’s more.” Wyla pressed on, “I spoke to a man from there, he said he had escaped, that the whole village went mad. The beasts he described sounded the same as those we encountered. What’s more, he wasn’t the only one to make it away. There’s a young woman who came through here not two days ago who tried to convince Captain Stoutmantle that there was some sort of cult in some of the trapping villages here, that beasts have been on the prowl. He turned her away as having gone mad.” Wyla finished and took a draught from her mug, before looking back and forth between Bran and Oren. Oren shrugged.

“Well, if she does know something and she’s looking for help, it’s a good enough place to start. Any idea how we find her?” He stood and drained his mug. Bran and Wyla both found their feet as she turned and answered.

“No. But I know someone who can.”

 

They reached Ruuna’s camp as the sun began to dip behind the rolling hills to the west. The air had already brought with it the chill of the coming night, as the tops of the trees glowed like fire in the fading light of day. The fortune teller had made camp close to the towering shadow of the Grizzlemaw, the monumental tree like some great fallen beast, its bones of bark and splinter shaping the land. It sheltered the small hill they rode towards, acting as a bulwark against the westerly wind. Smoke was already rising as their horses hooves dug into the earth and they reached the solitary caravan. Living alone in Grizzly Hills was no small feat, the land had its fair share of wolves, bears, and worse. It was even more impressive considering the fortune teller was blind. Bran had found that hard to believe, but as they rode up he saw the old cloaked woman bending over the pot on the fire turn towards them, a black band of cloth wrapped across both eyes. She stood as they dismounted, and a smile sent deep lines across her aged face.

“Wyla. Good you’ve come dear.” And she held out a hand that the night elf briefly clasped before turning to tie her horse to a nearby tree. Bran and Oren followed suit.

“You had best get your belongings from the horses. You’ll stay here tonight. Not wise to be out after dark.” as she spoke she turned to bend back over the simmering pot. Once the horses were tied they found a suitable patch of flat earth near the caravan to sleep on. Oren placed his weatherbeaten shield and heavy warmace alongside his pack, prompting Bran to untie his sword and leave it behind as well. Despite being in the middle of the wilds and having been attacked the night prior, something about the small camp felt protected, guarded, and safe. Bran couldn’t have said what it was exactly, but it comforted him that he clearly wasn’t the only one who felt it, the ease the others had in laying aside their arms was most unusual.

The light had begun to fade in earnest. They gathered wordlessly and sat in a semi-circle on the stumps that ringed Ruuna’s cooking fire. Bran eyed Oren across the flames, the grizzled man sitting with his bare palms towards the light. He seemed content to stay silent, and given Wyla’s familiarity with the fortuneteller, Bran decided to keep his mouth closed until introductions. Ruuna was humming to herself, her long grey hair swaying slightly in the breeze. The pot she was stirring had begun to send up the overpowering aroma of dried decaying leaves. Wyla glanced to Bran and Oren, and then spoke, faltering only slightly, as if she were interrupting something of grave importance.

“Ruuna, these are my friends---”

“Oren Kerriden and Brandon Tanner. I saw you all coming.” And with that she gave a wry smile.

“I know you prefer your solitude. We came because we need your help.” Wyla spoke more comfortably now, and Ruuna gave a small nod of acknowledgement as she stirred, but said nothing. “We are trying to find someone. Someone from Silverbrook.”

“Mmm.” Was all Ruuna said, turning to walk the few short strides to the caravan, returning with a handful of what looked like fine dark soil. She flung it into the pot and gave it another stir before sitting, and looking purposefully to each of them. When her face turned to Bran, he had the uncomfortable sense of a piercing gaze that left him feeling oddly exposed, despite the obvious fact that she was blind.

“And what have you brought? All knowledge demands payment, and often I don’t mean money.” She took a moment to dip a small wooden cup into the simmering brew, holding it gingerly between her hands as it sent up steam into the darkening twilight.

“I’m afraid we came on shorter notice than planned. I have neither information as payment, nor---” But before Wyla could finish, Oren cut her off.

“We have some small coin, if that will suffice.” He spoke gruffly, crossing his thick arms over his midsection. He didn’t seem all too impressed with Ruuna. Bran himself hadn’t yet decided, but there was something about her hidden gaze that unsettled him, to say the least.

“Hm.” The fortuneteller turned to face the burly grey haired man before turning to Wyla. “Most unusual that the most reliable scout in the region has no news.” Wyla blushed a bit at Ruuna’s words. “Not to worry dear, I know you have been busy with other things. And to you…” She extended a hand towards Oren, “to you I must confess that the information you seek cannot be measured in coins.”

“What would you ask?” It was the first words Bran had spoken, and his voice sounded a bit odd to him, but he kept his gaze intent and his posture relaxed as the fortuneteller turned to him. She seemed to consider him for a moment, tilting her head, until she finally gave a small and slightly unsettling smile.

“I ask for a favor.” She paused after speaking, leaving them to try to make sense of her words, before she turned back to Wyla. “When all of this business is over, you all will owe me a favor. Just one small favor.”

It didn’t sound like a thrilling idea to Bran, something about the fortune teller made him uneasy. Between undescribed favors and strange wolf monsters he couldn’t escape the feeling they might rapidly be getting in over their heads.

“If you survive, come back in seven days and repay your debt.” Ruuna pulled a small crystalline orb from the folds of her cloak as she spoke.

“ _If we survive?”_ Bran thought as he looked to the other two, neither of whom seemed outwardly perturbed by her comment. Death was a risk he expected, but the fortune teller having mentioned it made it stick more firmly in his mind.

“Agreed.” It was Oren who spoke, flat and level, his face expressionless. Wyla gave a small nod, and Bran, realizing the fortuneteller had now turned to him, nodded as well.

“Good. Good. Here.” She extended a hand, wrapped around the steaming cup, and held it across the fire towards Oren. He eyed the wooden cup suspiciously, but only hesitated a moment before taking it. Next she passed the small orb across the fire, placing it in his other hand.

“Drink and look. Tell me what you see.” She withdrew her hands into her cloak, giving her the appearance of a silver-crowned shadow. Oren exchanged a questioning glance with Wyla, and his light eyes flicked to Bran for a split second, before he drank the contents of the cup. He hissed through his teeth the way someone might after a swig of sharp alcohol, and lifted the orb so the light from the fire shone through it. Immediately Bran could see him stiffen. The man seemed frozen, his eyes staring at something beyond the sight of the others as he gazed into the orb. His Jaw clenched, and the knuckles holding the clear sphere began to whiten. Oren’s brow furrowed deeply as he stared, the seconds dragging out, Bran unaware of the deathgrip his own gloved hands had taken on the tops of his knees. He looked to Wyla, concern lining her fair features, and was about to intervene when Oren suddenly let out a great puff of air. He blinked several times, like someone thrust unexpectedly into broad daylight, and shook his head.

“That…..” He stared at Ruuna, brows knit, jaw tight, “That cannot be real. They have awakened him?”

All eyes turned to the fortune teller.

“So you saw. Good.” She retrieved the orb and cup from him as she spoke.

“What did you see?” Bran asked, leaning towards the fire.

“Arugal.” Oren’s tone was dark, and it set an eerie edge to the silence around the fire. Only now was Bran aware that night had fallen in earnest, and the darkness seemed to suddenly press in about them. The fire cast a strange light to Oren’s eyes as he spoke. “The Lich King has awakened the spirit of Archmage Arugal, the madman who created the wolf monsters that ravaged Silverpine. He’s here. Somehow. He’s responsible for these creatures.” His voice was hoarse as he spoke, his complexion paler than usual, and Bran guessed that he himself was beginning to look the same as he took in his comrade’s words.

“That’s not…” It came out as more of a croak than Bran expected. His mouth had gone dry. What was he going to say, ‘possible’? He’d already seen the dead walk, portals that led to other worlds, and many of the nameless beasts that filled tavern stories and the nightmares of children. ‘Possible’ seemed more a relative term these days. Oren pressed a hand to pinch the top of his nose between his eyes.

“Are you sure?” Wyla looked anxious as she spoke. Oren responded with a heavy shrug, his face suddenly looking several years older, betraying a weariness he seldom wore.

“It’s what I saw.” His words came out level this time, though he grimaced as though they left a bad taste in his mouth. He turned his gaze up from the fire to Ruuna. “Is it true?” He asked. “What I saw, has it happened?” She nodded slowly in response and he muttered a low curse.

“Arugal’s spirit has been called forth. He has spread the curse of the wolf to these shores, these towns, these very woods.” She spoke heavily and folded her robed arms before her like a great winged bird.

“We have to tell Captain Stoutmantle.” Bran looked at Oren as he spoke, but it was Wyla who responded.

“He would never believe this. You know that.” She was right, and Bran knew it, but their party had begun to feel hopelessly small in light of what they now faced.

“Even so, we can’t do this alone, there’s only three of us.” Bran gestured to himself and Oren as he spoke to the elf. “Maybe we could gather some others we know, Gryth and Jorr might come. I know some people at Amberpine who would---”

“There isn’t time.” Ruuna’s voice was hard, and Bran clamped his mouth shut on his own words. “If you mean to stop Arugal, you do not stand much of a chance it’s true.” She bowed her head slightly as she spoke. “But every moment you delay that chance grows more slim. You will not be alone either. If you chose to undertake this quest your paths will cross with a valuable ally.” Oren and Bran raised their eyebrows, and Wyla leaned towards the fortune teller, her voice softer now over the crackle of the flames.

“As it happens, we are looking for someone. A survivor from Silverbrook.”

“Indeed.” Ruuna nodded and flashed a small smile. “Several of the hunter’s villages have already become afflicted by Arugals curse, what’s more, many have become devotees of his cause. Silverbrook is in the hands of the Wolf Cult now, and it is not the only village to fall prey. Those who resisted were killed, but at least one escaped, and she now hunts the very creatures you seek to stop.” The fortune teller paused and inhaled deeply, tilting her head up to the darkened heavens where the pinpricks of stars were scattered in the dark. The wind blew softly, making the pines whistle and the fire dance. “You seek a young woman named Sasha. She passed this way not a day hence. You will find her to the southeast, less than a day’s ride from here at an old trading Post called White Pine.”

“South of Solstice village.” Oren remarked, pulling a small and battered map from his belt and squinting at it.

“Yes. Go to White Pine, and you will find the answers you seek, but beware Solstice Village, I fear the wolves have already taken it.” Ruuna finally dropped her gaze back to the fire. Wyla outstretched a hand to rest on the old woman’s knee.

“Thank you Ruuna. We are grateful for your help.” Ruuna responded by wrapping the elf’s hand in one of her own.

“You’re welcome. It truly is good to see you. I wish I had better news for your quest.”

“I’d prefer the truth over optimism.” Oren grunted and folded his map back up. “We’ll leave camp in the morning.” With that he gave a curt nod and turned to walk back towards the caravan. Wyla held Ruuna’s hand a moment longer before following the greying veteran, giving a small nod to Bran as she did so. Bran stayed where he was, hands stretched towards the fire, gloves soaking in and holding the warmth, as he watched the rippling shapes the flames licked into the logs. When he looked back to the fortuneteller he found she had turned to him, the way someone might stare.

“You’ve seen more than most your age, haven’t you.” It didn’t sound like a question, but Bran had the feeling she expected a response. He stared back at the fire.

“Difficult to say. So much has happened in the world these years. I don’t think there’s a way to reckon what people have experienced.” As he finished he looked back to her and saw she was nodding slowly, now turned to the flames.

“Well spoken.” She drew up a long stick from the ground beside her and gave the fire a few pokes, stirring up sparks. “You’re always welcome here you know.” Her words surprised him a bit. “Whether you’re looking for information, bringing it, or just need a place to rest for the night.”

“Thank you.” He said, only a little awkwardly.

“Besides,” and she smiled again, slightly crookedly, “my Wyla doesn’t keep company with just anyone, and she’s been travelling and working with you and that old bear for almost a year’s time now. I’d call that friends.” She gave a light chuckle. Something in her words made Bran feel comforted, and sent a warmth through his chest despite how cold the night was, and the dark words they had shared around the fire. He stood after a moment, suddenly weary, and gave a light bow he had the impression Ruuna saw, despite her blind eyes. She gave a nod as he turned to join the others and set out his bedroll for the night.

They rose shortly after dawn, the light setting pearls in the frosted blades of grass at their feet. After a quick meal and thanks to their host, they mounted up and found the road that led southeast, to White Pine. The ride took until the sun was already beginning to sink, the late afternoon warm enough that they shed their cloaks as they road. They passed a few streams gurgling with cold alpine water, and as Bran occasionally looked behind them, watching the great fallen tree of the Grizzlemaw shrink until it disappeared behind hills and trees. . The mountains loomed ever closer on their right, the tall peaks like giants, their sharp sides blanketed in white that reflected the sunlight and dazzled the eyes. Soon they passed from meadow and valley back into the presence of trees once again, and came within sight of White Pine. It was only a few structures, built of logs and rising high among the trunks of the trees. It looked still and quiet where it sat at the foot of the woody hillsides, a trickle of smoke rising from somewhere out of sight.

“We should be careful going in. We have no idea what’s waiting for us.” Wyla dismounted when they were close, the ground rising slightly before them until it leveled out at the edge of the first building. The others were tying their horses when the still air was suddenly split with the sharp crack of a rifle. They all looked at each other for the briefest moment before turning to sprint towards the log structures. Bran drew his sword as Wyla overtook him, and came around the corner of the building only a hair’s breadth behind her. He skidded to an unsteady halt beside the elf, her bow drawn, and followed her gaze to the central fire pit that burned in the space between the three buildings that constituted the trading post.

Two figures stood there, both turning to the newcomers as Oren caught up with Bran and Wyla. One was a man, grey hair like Oren, with a cropped beard and matted locks that fell over his shoulders, standing out against the rough blue of his shirt. Mud was caked on his ruddy leggings and boots, and he stood, both hands slightly raised, a wary and feral look to his eyes. One shoulder had a slowly spreading dark stain around a tear from what Bran guessed was a bullet graze. After all, the other figure was the one holding a rifle. She was young, likely close to Bran’s age, her raven hair matching the dark leather she wore. Her feet were planted firmly, her hold on the weapon steady and unwavering, still aiming the barrel of the rifle towards the older man standing across the fire from her.

They all stood still for a moment, the silence tense, the newcomers trying to make sense of the scene they had burst in upon. The young woman spoke first, keeping the rifle aimed at the man, not even turning her gaze to them as she spoke.

“Whoever you are you’d best clear out. This isn’t your business. Unless of course you’re with him.” At the word ‘ _him’_ her eyes flicked to them, if only for an instant. Bran still held his sword up, and Wyla had yet to lower her bow. It was Oren who though to ask the question on their minds.

“Are you Sasha?” His query caught her attention in earnest, and she turned to look them all over a moment longer, likely as long as she dared, before returning her attention to the man.

“Who’s asking.” She stole another sidelong glance at them as she spoke.

“Ruuna sent us.” Wyla lowered her bow as the words left her lips, and took a few slow steps forward. Bran lowered his sword, but didn’t re-sheath it. Sasha glanced at them again, and then gave a small jerk with her head, beckoning them forward. They walked until they were almost alongside her, Bran turning to take a better look at the strange man. His head was slightly bent forward so his eyes glimmered menacingly under the thick cover of his brows. There was something unnatural to them.

“Awfully kind of Ruuna. If you want to help you can get some rope for this one.” She jerked her rifle slightly to indicate the man.

“Before we leap right in, you’ll excuse us if we ask what exactly is going on.” It left Oren’s mouth as a statement, not a question and incited a small exasperated noise from Sasha. When she spoke she had a bitterness to her voice.

“This is Anatoly. He’s part of the Wolf Cult in Solstice Village, less than a mile east of here. The Wolf Cult took over Silverbrook. They killed my father.” Bran turned to Anatoly, but though he clearly heard them, he didn’t open his mouth to speak in his own defence, and merely kept glaring at them all. There was a lengthy silence, during which Bran re-sheathed his sword.

“If you really are here to help---” But Sasha didn’t need to finish. Wyla moved forwards and grabbed a length of rope from a small pile of supplies and barrels leaning against the large tower of the trading post, and used it to lash Anatoly’s arms to his sides. Satisfied that he was under guard, Sasha finally lowered her rifle and looked them all over. She failed to conceal a slight look of amazement as her eyes settled on Wyla, and Bran wondered if the young woman had seen many elves. Oren kept his mace at the ready, and pushed Anatoly down onto his knees before standing like a sentinel beside him.

“Thank you for your help.” Sasha muttered as she walked to the supply pile, placing her rifle against the log wall, stooping to dig through a large crate.

“What’s happened to the trading villages? What does it mean that the Wolf Cult has taken over?” Bran asked Sasha’s back.

“It means they follow Arugal’s spirit, what he commands. They kill anyone he tells them to, Alliance or Horde. They sabotage trade routes, and are responsible for most of the disappearances that have happened these last months.” She spoke over her shoulder, still searching through the crate.

“So the attacks have been by men, these Wolf Cult members?” As the question left Bran’s lips, he couldn’t help but think back to the night of the wagon attack.

“Yes and no.” Sasha paused, having finally found the small vial she appeared to have been looking for, taking a moment to examine the green liquid swirling in it. “Men, women, all the villagers either joined or were killed. And there’s more. They can…..” She stopped and looked intently at Bran, a slightly unsure expression ghosting across her features. “They can change.”

“Change how?” Oren grunted, still standing guard over Anatoly.

“They can turn into beast. Like wolves, great big creatures that can walk on two legs, with teeth and claws.” Her answer prompted a sound from Oren somewhere between a cough and a laugh.

“I’ll believe it when I see it little lady. I’d say you were outright mad, had we not all been attacked by monsters a few nights ago.” Sasha bristled but seemed too preoccupied to offer a retort. She was busy pouring the contents of the vial on the dagger she wore in her belt, sheathing it when she was done and picking her rifle back up. She walked to where they stood, then glanced up at the sky to where the sun hung low between the trees to the west.

“I have something I need to do. Can you make sure he doesn’t escape while I’m gone?” She was asking Bran, but it was Wyla who responded.

“Where are you going? It’s almost dark, and we still have questions.”

“So do I.” Sasha sighed. “I need answers. This…..” her features contorted as she gestured to Anatoly, “.....this monster, he knows where my sister is.”

“Sister?” Bran and Oren both asked in unison.

“We both escaped when they killed my father, but they caught us in the woods. I got away but they….they took Anya.” Her eyes dropped as she spoke, one of her hands twisting on the barrel of the rifle as though she was trying to strangle it. “Anatoly knows where the Solstice Village Wolf Cult have her, and he’s not been willing to talk, but I know a way to get him too.” And with that she turned towards the hills that hugged the trading post.

“So you expect us to just sit here while you wander into the middle of a wolf-monster infested village?” There was something sarcastic in Oren’s tone. Sasha stopped and turned.

“I am asking you to. I can’t do this alone. If you help me get my sister back I’ll help you stop these cultists, if that’s what you’re here to do.”

“It is.” Wyla nodded.

“Then wait for me here. I have survived Solstice Village before, I know my way around these parts.” Sasha paused, her face suddenly revealing something that looked almost like desperation, but whatever it was it was quickly gone. “I need your help to get my sister back. Please.”

Wyla nodded at that, and as if to emphasize her point, went and sat on a log by the fire. Sasha turned to Bran, who responded with a nod, his ears growing slightly hot under her gaze. Oren only responded with a shrug, but that seemed to satisfy Sasha, and she turned and made her way up the hill, disappearing among the trees. Bran joined Wyla, his eyes on Anatoly, the man’s dark expression unyielding.

“Do you think we should trust her?” He spoke sideways to Wyla.

“Yes. She needs our help.” Wyla paused and turned an almost accusatory look to Oren. “And we’ll likely need her help before this is all over.”

Oren sighed, but gave a consenting nod before giving Anatoly a shove, knocking him on his side. Anatoly grunted and glared, but said nothing.

“Probably no use asking him. Seen his type before, die before they talk. Wonder what Sasha has in mind.” Oren grunted, before sitting and lighting up a pipe.

 

Anatoly still hadn’t spoken a word when Sasha returned. She was leading a horse, her hair somewhat bedraggled and a bit of blood staining her tunic, but otherwise unchanged. The sun had already sunk behind the hills, the light fading fast as she walked into the camp. The others had taken the time to gather their things and make use of the fire to prepare some food. Sasha approached wordlessly, rifle on one shoulder, jaw set, fists tight. She raised her chin slightly at Oren as she approached, who turned form where he sat to survey her with one eyebrow raised. Bran knew the look. White knuckle, harsh, determined, with something brittle underneath. He saw it on Sasha now, the same look she had given them when she left. He knew it all too well, and how it felt. He himself often assumed it when people called him ‘boy’, or underestimated him, which by his reckoning was all too frequent.

She walked directly up to Oren, then turned and pushed what Bran had first taken to be a sack from where it rested on the saddle to fall on the ground. Bran gave a start, and heard Wyla suck in a mouthful of air while Oren muttered a curse. It wasn’t a sack at all, it was a woman.

“Is she…..did you…” Bran heard himself asking.

“I used a sleeping poison on my blade. She’s alive. But she’ll only stay that way if you tell me what I want to know.” It was Anatoly that Sasha spoke to, Anatoly who suddenly no longer looked like a hungry beast ready to spring. The man’s face had turned ghostly white, his mouth slightly ajar as he looked at the form Sasha had pushed to the ground only a few feet from where he was bound. Oren stood and moved alongside Sasha, speaking to her sideways.

“What are you doing?”

“This is the only way we’ll get him to talk.” Sasha muttered through gritted teeth. She was shaking ever so slightly, and Bran hoped that Oren couldn’t see it. He moved a bit closer.

“Sasha…” Wyla spoke slowly, cautiously.

“Are you sure you want to be doing this?” Oren finished for her, a subtly condescending note to his voice. At least it sounded that way to Bran’s ears. Sasha seemed not to hear, and kept a steely glare on Anatoly. The man’s mouth still hung slightly ajar, his eyes occasionally flicking up to Sasha.

“Tatjana…..” It was the first word he had spoken, his voice gruff, and now strained. “How did you capture my wife?” He kept his voice flat, but couldn’t hide a hint of shock in his eyes. It seemed to bolster Sasha, who glared all the more fiercely.

“Where is my sister. Tell me where the Wolf Cult has taken her!” She lowered the rifle from her shoulder, pointing the barrel towards the ground dangerously close to Tatjana’s head. The others kept their silence, though Wyla turned to Bran with an unsure glance. Anatoly grimaced, his eyes flicking from Tatjana to Sasha, to the rifle, and back. When she seemed to think too much time had passed, Sasha made a loud show of pulling the hammer of the rifle back and tucking the butt into her shoulder.

“Alright!” He blurted, and the tightness in Sasha’s shoulders dissipated a bit. “Alright. We have your brat sister in the cave just east of Solstice Village.” He struggled slightly against the ropes that held him. Sasha let out a small sigh, then looked to the others on either side of her.

“And Arugal. Tell me what you know about him. Where can we find him?” This time as Sasha asked, Oren leaned in with greater interest. Anatoly grimaced again, struggled, and gave no reply.

“You WILL tell us.” This time Sasha pointed the rifle at Tatjana’s head, and Bran felt his fists clench as Anatoly’s face contorted into a mask of pain. When he finally spoke, it was almost a whisper, barely heard over the sound of the fire behind them.

“If I told you, there’s nothing you could do to us worse than he could.” Anatoly spoke through gritted teeth. “Tatjana I’m sorry.”

His eyes flicked open, brilliant gold and wild looking. He gave a strangled yell, his body changing in an instant, black fur appearing, claws sprouting, as the bonds that held him snapped like brittle twigs. He still had two legs, and two arms, but his shoulders had become broad and hunched, his face turned to a long snout bristling with teeth, long ears back amidst thick fur like hair that appeared on his head and shoulders. His clothes tore at the seams, his cry turning to a loud feral snarl, and in one quick instant he went from a bound man to a wolfish beast, leaping towards them with fire in his eyes.

Bran was so stunned all he could think to do was raise his arms as if warding off a blow. He heard someone cry out, and there was a loud crack like shattering stone. The snarling form jerked suddenly backwards out of the air to tumble on the ground next to Tatjana’s unconscious form. Bran staggered slightly and turned to see Sasha, the barrel of her rifle letting up a small trial of smoke. Oren let out a series of curses from somewhere to their left, while Wyla put a hand on Sasha’s shoulder.

“What in the name of the Light….” Oren whispered and leaned over Anatoly’s wolfish corpse, before turning slowly to Sasha. “I think I owe you an apology.” But Sasha didn’t seem to notice, she was still staring at the beast lying on the ground.

“Are you alright?” Wyla spoke as she removed her hand and walked alongside Sasha, waiting for the dark haired woman to look her in the eye. Sasha finally did, and gave a jerky nod, before turning wordlessly away. Bran watched her back as she went, then exchanged looks with Wyla and Oren. Oren bent over the creature at his feet.

“We may be in over our heads.” He grunted, and lifted one of the furry wrists, examining the wicked claws.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Bran sighed, and walked after Sasha, leaving Wyla and Oren to examine the wolf. He found Sasha cleaning her rifle. She didn’t acknowledge him even after he came level with her.

“Would you have done it?” He asked quietly, staring at her hands as she checked her ammunition noisily. Enough time passed before she answered he had almost decided to walk back to the fire.

“I don’t know.” Her voice sounded even and calm. “I don’t think so.” She sighed and lowered the rifle, her shoulders dropping, one of her hands combing absently through her thick hair. She finally turned to look at him, her gaze so direct it was startling. “Thank you.” She finished, half-awkwardly, a small crease appearing between her brows.

“For what? You’re the one who saved me back there.” He asked, making no attempt to hide the surprise from his voice.

“For not treating me like a child.” She stared directly at him as she spoke, as if daring him to look away. “ _I know what it feels like”._ He wanted to say, but something in the way she looked at him told him he didn’t need to.

Wyla called Bran’s name and both he and Sasha turned. The elf was beckoning to them.

“We should wait until dawn to try to find your sister.” Wyla looked at the now almost fully darkened sky, then to Sasha. “Do you know where the cave is?”

Sasha gave a small nod in response. “If you help me save my sister, I’ll help you defeat the spirit of Arugal. We have to stop these…” Her eyes wandered passed them to where Anatoly lay, “....beasts.”

“Agreed. Get the horses. We shouldn’t stay here tonight. We’ll go a mile north. No fires.” Oren muttered and slung his warmace and shield over his back.

“What about her?” Wyla asked, gesturing to where Tatjana still lay unconscious.

“We’ll leave her. She’ll be awake in an hour or two.” Sasha spoke over her shoulder as she walked to where her own mount was tied, “We’ll be gone by then.”

They rode in silence, the darkness of the forest pressing at times, the moonlight scattered by the branches of trees. The air was already cold enough to sting in the back of the throat, and they pulled their cloaks about them as they slowly made their journey. Wyla led, her keen eyes seeing through nighttime shadows. Bran could feel the sea on the air. It was likely a days ride south, but the faintest smell of it carried on the wind, and here where it kissed the trees long wispy lichens grew from some of the branches, swaying like ghostly hair. They made camp in the dark and bedded down without a word. Bran found little sleep that night. Through the forest to the southeast the wind carried the howls of wolves, the fires from Solstice village just visible between the dark shapes of the trees. He eventually drifted off into strange dreams, and didn’t wake to the chiprings of the dawn birds.

Bran woke to Wyla shaking him, one hand flying instinctively to the dagger in his belt, before the confusion in his eyes was replaced with early morning grogginess.

“Time to go.” Wyla whispered. Already she was walking back to where Oren and Sasha stood with the horses. Bran staggered up and gathered his things as quickly as he was able. It didn’t take them long to break down camp in the faint light, and already dawn was approaching in earnest when they left. Rays of light krept through the mossy trees, though the sun itself had yet to rise. They rode in silence, vigilant of the faintest sounds as they did, the forest alive with the noises of the dawn. The wooden huts and log walls of Solstice Village came in sight before long, and they dismounted, tying their horses. Wisps of smoke slowly rose, but it looked otherwise quiet. Sasha turned to them and placed a finger against her lips as she lead the way down along the bottom of the hill on which the village stood. They crept slowly through the bracken and grass, keeping as many trees between them and the village as possible.

Their path took them down into a steeper gully to the east, running along the Village. Here the crest of the hill protected them from view, and they could pass more swiftly. When they were directly east of the village, Sasha stopped suddenly, and leaned against the vast trunk of a nearby tree.

“What is it?” Oren hissed, peering out at the hillside.

“Wolves.” She motioned for them to move all the more quietly. They slowly drew closer, until Bran could see the dark maw of a stone cave, tucked into the hillside among the trees. Sasha’s eyes had been right, there were three wolves at the mouth of the cave, lounging in the sunlight that filtered through the branches above. They weren’t ordinary wolves either. Their canines extended far below their jaw, long and wicked, their fur thick and bristling. their claws were at least twice the length of those of a normal wolf, their shoulders broad and hunched. Bran slowly moved alongside Sasha, trying to keep his footfalls deathly quiet.

“Do you think they are people? Like Anatoly?” He asked, barely a whisper.

“I don’t think so. They don’t look as human. I don’t know what they are.” Sasha glanced out from behind the tree.

“Worgs.” Oren whispered, loud enough that the nearest beast lifted it’s head and sniffed the air.

“This is the cave.” Sasha whispered as she ducked completely back behind the tree. They held still for another moment, before Wyla let an arrow fly without warning. The elf slipped far enough from the cover of tree for clean sight, her arms sweeping to her quiver and down to her bowstring in a seamless motion, the string itself letting out a soft hum. The shot struck the nearest wolf clean through one of its eyes and it thrashed horribly for a moment before lying still.

There was a moment of shock, before the clearing exploded in noise and motion. Bran had already drawn his sword, the other two wolves leaping forward, snarling and growling. A loud crack came from Sasha’s rifle, one of the remaining wolves twisted with a yelp in midair before dropping to the ground. Wyla fired another arrow into the shoulder of the last wolf, but it charged like a crazed thing, seemingly oblivious to the shaft in it’s flesh. Oren reached it first, taking a snarling mass of teeth and claws against his shield, his knees bending under the force of the blow. Before it could leap again he swung his warmace across it’s muzzle, sending it tumbling. The wolf scrambled back to its feet, blood oozing from a half-closed eye and a deep gouge in its snout. It leapt against Oren’s shield again, and Bran took the opportunity to strike it’s exposed side, leaping forward and driving his sword between it’s ribs. The beast collapsed with a long whine, and Bran withdrew his sword as Sasha ran abreast of him and the others at the cave mouth.

“Watch out!” She pointed towards the dark maw, as Bran turned to see what their commotion had called forth. The figures of men appeared out of the cave, wearing leather and furs, some holding weapons. Bran didn’t have time to count how many, but at least two of them had transformed as they emerged from the cave, their bodies taking on the same wolfish form as Anatoly. Bran didn’t wait to try to count them. Oren had already met the first wolf-beast, striking such a blow with his warmace as to shatter it’s skull before it could sink its claws into him. Wyla let fly an arrow into the chest of a charging man, his ax falling from his grip as he tumbled to the ground. One of the wolf beasts leapt at Bran, it’s claws swinging for his head. He ducked and ran his sword below it’s outstretched arms, cutting cleanly across it’s abdomen, and moved to the next attacker before the monster hit the ground.

A man with a thick beard and fierce eyes emerged from the cave carrying a crossbow, and fired a bolt that rang like a bell against Oren’s shield before a shot from Sasha’s rifle struck him to the ground. Wyla was a blur to Bran’s right, her white hair whipping as she spun and drove an arrow like a dagger into the eye of one of the wolf beasts. Bran blocked and dodged several blows from a man wielding a logging axe, before he took a fist across the jaw and tasted blood. He turned from the blow drove his knee into the man’s groin, before bringing his sword down on the man’s back.

As quickly as it had begun, it was over. Bran ran after Sasha as she bolted to the mouth of the cave. Wyla and Oren fell in behind. The elf had a claw mark through the leather on one shoulder, though it looked shallow. Oren for his part was unscathed, and Sasha looked none the worse for wear as she ran to the dark opening. Bran spat crimson and called out.

“Sasha wait! There could be---” He was cut off by a snarl as one of the wolf beasts emerged from the darkness. Sasha in her haste, staggered, unbalanced, but had wit enough to hold her rifle in front of her like a shield as the beast swung. It’s claws rent through the wood, splitting the stock from the barrel of the rifle. Though it missed Sasha’s flesh, the force of the blow struck her to the ground. Bran stepped over her as carefully as possible, bringing his sword down across the beast’s shoulder, rending through fur and flesh. It crumpled to the ground and let loose a long, wretched howl, before Bran brought his blade down again for the killing stroke. He offered a hand to Sasha and pulled her to her feet.

“Thanks.” She panted.

Bran gave a nod in response. “I know you want to find your sister, but we can’t just go charging in, we have no idea what’s in there.

“I know.” She looked at the ground for a moment. “Sorry.”

Oren and Wyla reached them and peered into the darkness of the open cave. Oren glanced at Bran.

“You’re bleeding.” He grunted.

“I know.” Bran spit blood again and wiped the back of a gloved hand over his mouth, silently grateful he hadn’t lost a tooth.

They advanced slowly into the cave, eyes straining with the full light of day glaring in behind them. It didn’t take long to discover it was mostly empty. The inside was deep, twisting and long enough that it must have reached directly under Solstice Village. The back was dimly lit by flickering torches, casting light on piles of bones, stacks of supplies, and one small wooden cage. Bran reached it first, hacking through the wrappings that held the planks and sticks together, rending the front of it clean off. He immediately knelt down so he was level with it, and peered inside as Sasha ran up behind him.

There was a girl inside. No more than eight by the look of it, wearing a tattered light brown dress, her blonde hair matted and filthy. Dirt streaks covered bare feet and knees, and her blue eyes wore a frightened and feral look.

“We’re here to--” But before Bran could finish, much to his surprise, a tiny balled fist struck him square on the nose. More from shock than the force of the blow, he stumbled and landed on his back, sprawling from the assault of the small child who looked ready to pounce on him. Fortunately Bran was rescued by Sasha, who leapt forward and extended her arms.

“Anya!” The young woman’s voice broke slightly as she cried out. The small child saw her, recognition dawning on her face, and leapt forward, flinging her tiny arms around her sister’s neck.

Bran tested his nose gently, and rose to his feet. “Ow.”

“Sasha! You found me! I knew you would. I told them you would find me.” Anya clung to her sister as if she were drowning, tears streaking her dirty face. Sasha looked more relieved and joyous than anything else, though she too was crying, if only a little.

“They were horrible. They said they were going to eat me, or worse, turn me into one of those….those...things!” And her little voice broke, her face burrowing into her sisters dark hair.

“It’s ok. You’re going to be alright. We’re going to take you away from here.” Sasha spoke softly, hugging her sister tightly. Of the others, only Oren kept his usual stony expression. Wyla and Bran both wore a half-sad smile as they watched the two embrace, Sasha speaking all the words of comfort she think of.

Finally when the little girl had started speaking more slowly and softly, she turned her attention to the others.

“Sasha, who are they?” Anya’s eyes widened as she looked at Wyla.

“They’re friends. I couldn’t have gotten here without them.” Sasha turned and gave a small smile to Bran as she spoke, though the look in her eyes didn’t match, and seemed much heavier. Anya looked each of them over, her brow crinkling a little when she reached Bran.

“Sorry.” She said sheepishly, her tiny shoulders hunching a bit.

“Don’t be. I would have done the same thing.” Bran offered a warm smile. “It was a good punch.” This brought a tiny grin to Anya’s face, as Sasha stood and took her sister’s hand.

“We need to get out of here. I have a friend who lives as a hermit not far from here. We can take Anya there.” She started to walk, but Anya gripped her wrist tightly and held her behind.

“No, you can’t! Not yet. I heard them talking, the wolfmen. They were going to take me to Badmoon isle. That’s where their leader is. They said he was planning something. It might not be safe.”

“Badmoon? You mean Bloodmoon isle?” Sasha knelt so she was level with her sister, Oren and the others had leaned in as well, curiosity delaying the desire for a hasty escape. Bran called up one of the maps of Grizzly Hills in his mind. Bloodmoon isle. Just off the coast to the east. The only thing he’d ever heard about it was that it was cursed.

“That’s what I said.” Anya nodded so vigorously as she spoke that her ratty hair bobbed. “Badmoon isle.”

“Are you sure?” Sasha spoke as she gently gripped her sisters shoulders. Again Anya nodded. Sasha slowly turned to the others.

“We don’t know how to find him, but if what the men here told her is true, the shade of Arugal is on Bloodmoon isle.” She looked to each of them in turn as she spoke. Oren scratched his beard in a contemplative fashion.

“That’s a days ride. We’ll need a boat.”

“You can’t _go_ there!” Anya almost shrieked, pulling on her sister. “I told you so we can go somewhere far away!”

Sasha seemed not to have heard her sister. “I know a fishing camp on the coast. We can ride today and get some rest, leave for the island at sun-up. We’d be there before midday tomorrow.” Oren, Wyla and Bran all exchanged looks, Bran giving his own stiff nod in response to theirs.

“No! Sasha!” Anya pulled on her sister, who turned and gripped her sister’s shoulder firmly. When Sasha spoke her voice was gentle.

“Anya, I need you to trust me. I am taking you to Meeka’s. The hermit is going to look after you, just for a few days.”

“Sasha--!”

“No. Listen. You need to trust me. I’ll come right back.” She looked her sister level in her bright blue eyes. Finally Anya bit her lip and gave a jerky nod.

“You promise you’ll come back?” Anya’s voice was small as a mouse. Sasha exchanged an unsure glance with the others, before taking both her sister’s tiny hands in her own and holding them tight.

“I promise.”

Sasha and her sister parted ways with them, though Sasha was to rejoin after taking her sister to the old woman who lived not far away in a hut, providing food and lodging to traveling trappers. Bran and the others crept from Solstice Village without being seen, remounting and making their way east through the trees. Bran rode last, looking over his shoulder often, searching the deep woods for signs of pursuers. It wouldn’t take long for the bodies at the cave and the missing captive to be discovered. They made their way as quickly as they could manage across country, passing through ever thinning trees thickly coated in hanging lichens. The wind that carried the smell of the sea had already reached them before they broke from the treeline, passing into the meadows and fields that covered the last hills before the blue expanse. By evening they could not only see, but also hear the waves, as they made their way across meandering streams, through rocky outcroppings, down to the coast.

The lights of the small fishing camp were already shining when they reached the small protected cove where a makeshift dock had been built. They found food and lodging for small coin, the makeshift log and canvas structures of the camp wonderfully warm against the chill wind of the sea. At night the sound was even stranger, the waves like the breath of a great slumbering giant. Bran was uneasy as they sat around the fire, examining an old and tattered map of Oren’s. It was the only one that had Bloodmoon isle on it, with only a few paths marked, most of the island a blank sprawl. No one went to Bloodmoon. A tense silence hung between them all, the unknown and imagined challenges just ahead robbing them of present ease. Sasha rode into the camp only an hour or so after nightfall, and joined them as they laid rough plans, and kept their anxious thoughts to themselves.

The best way to reach the island seemed to be a small inlet on it’s western side, and Oren had already found a fisherman in the camp either mad or desperate enough for money that he had agreed to ferry them there. They would land under full light of day, find Arugal and slay him. It was simple enough, but the truth was that not one of them had any idea what they might meet on the strange island.

Bran waited until they broke for their own beds before pulling Sasha aside.

“Your sister?”

“Safe and sound. Looked more like herself after a hot bath and some food.” Sasha smiled lightly as she spoke, but the weight in her voice couldn’t be disguised. Bran felt it too, in his own way, and his mind wandered back to the promise Sasha had made to her sister in the cave.

“Sasha,” Bran lowered his voice and turned his back to where Oren and Wyla still sat by the fire. “you didn’t need to come back.” Of all things he was surprised to see her brows furrow suddenly. She took a step away and stared at him incredulously.

“I gave you my word I would help.” She crossed her arms tightly as she spoke. Bran gritted his teeth, regretting having opened his mouth. “Besides. This is my home. If Arugal succeeds in spreading his curse and converting cultists, Anya and I will likely die anyway.” She glared at him. “And I’m not afraid.” The last part, likely a lie, came out curt and sharp. Bran would have said the same thing, had anyone asked him, though he would have been as dishonest as she.

“I’m sorry...I just...what I meant was..” Bran tripped over his tongue as he tried to backtrack, Sasha glaring at him. Finally he took a deep breath. “Look, I was just thinking of your sister. You’re the only family she has left.” Sasha’s expression softened at that, so Bran pressed forward. “I don’t doubt you.” He stared at her as he spoke, the memory of White Pine playing in his mind. He thought of the way she looked, chin high, rifle held steady, even if underneath she had been afraid. He thought of all the times he had been called ‘boy’, and clenched one of his fists as he stood there. “I never did.” He finished softly, then turned and walked away before she could respond. Sasha watched his back as he went, her eyes following until after he had returned to the fire.

They rose and prepared in silence the next morning, hardly a word shared between them. The dawn songbirds were a chorus to the scrape of a whetstone on Bran’s sword. Oren procured a light mail undershirt for Bran, and thankfully it didn’t take long to get used to the extra weight. Sasha had no rifle, but she had brought along an axe, a shortsword, and a small number of knives. When they had armed themselves and eaten something, they made their way down to the dock, the ocean misty in the morning light, the island a vague looming shadow through the fog. The wind whipped as they set out in the small boat, and Bran pulled his cloak tight against the chill of the sea, his hair swirling in the air. The furs at Oren’s collar billowed, his shoulders hunched against the cold.

The wind had died down and the sun cut through the fog by the time they reached the island. It was small, like an oversized hill on the flat horizon of water. It’s sides were dotted by occasional scraggly trees, and at its peak, the ruins of an old fortress stretched black against the sky. They pulled onto the gravelly beach of the inlet. If all went to plan, the fisherman would return here and wait from evening until dusk for them. If they weren’t back by the time the sun had begun to set, he was to leave them.

Bran felt his boots sink into the wet sand as he walked, occasionally glancing over his shoulder as the small boat retreated back towards the line of the mainland. The island was eerily quiet. No birds sang, the only noise was the constant whisper of wind through the needles of the evergreens. There were plenty of signs of life despite the stillness. A row of boats was pulled up on the shore, and there were fresh boot tracks in the sand, a well travelled path leading away from the beach. Further up, small spires of smoke rose from the trees. Bran drew his sword as the sand turned to packed earth, and they entered the forest. Wyla lead, her keen eyes searching the trees as they followed the path. Bran came behind her, followed by Sasha, with Oren walking heavily in the rear, warmace in hand, shield ready. They spotted the first inhabitants of the island as they reached the ridge before them, stopping behind the cover of trees before the path broke into the open.

At first it appeared to be another one of the wolf-men, but as it moved and walked around a small fire, they saw it was a man wearing wolf furs. The head of the beast looked like a bizarre helm, and thick fur covered the man’s bare shoulders and torso. He wasn’t alone either. There were others there, men wearing skins and furs, walking among small wooden structures built round the central fires.

“Cultists.” Sasha hissed.

“Can they turn into those...things?” Oren asked as he watched the men in the clearing.

“No. Not yet.” Sasha muttered darkly. “They come to the island to be...transformed.” She grimaced slightly, and Bran couldn’t help but share her sentiment.

“And Arugal?” Oren asked Sasha directly this time.

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. Bran felt a gnawing in his gut, remembering the sight of the jagged ruins at the islands peak when they made landfall.

“One guess where we’ll find him.” He looked at Oren, then gave a meaningful glance to where the path meandered further up the hill.

“Shhh! Worgs.” Sasha hissed. Several of the beasts had emerged from the far side of the clearing and walked among the cultists like tamed creatures. “We need to go before they catch our scent.”

Wyla nodded in agreement. “We should make for the ruins.” She started back towards the main trail, then gave a pointed glance to Oren. “Quietly.” Oren raised an eyebrow but didn’t retort.

They crept silently back to the trail, keeping an eye on their backs to be sure none of the worgs followed. They reached the main trail and continued to climb. They passed half a dozen more little encampments, each with cultists and worgs, and more trails winding off from the main path. Finally they reached the summit, the trees falling away to reveal the black ruins of some ancient fortress, a massive tower reaching out of its center like a giant hand. It looked unguarded. They walked into its shadow in silence, up the crumbling steps, and into the dark.

The first thing Bran noticed, as he squinted into the shadows, was the smell. Stale and old, the odor of dirt, wet stone and dust, mixed with the unfortunate aroma of rotting meat. Something squelched under his boot, and he resisted the urge to look down. The inside of the keep was dimly lit by torches, casting flickering shadows on the crumbling walls. The air was thick with dust and the smell of decay, cobwebs hanging from the ceiling in billowing strands. A winding stone staircase rose out of the dark, up and up to a glimmer of daylight above them. The center tower of the keep rising up out of the reach of the torches’ light. The stones of the steps were smooth, free of dirt and grime, betraying the passing of many feet. Bran, the only one with a free hand, had the wits to pull a torch from the wall as he gripped his longsword.

“This way.” Wyla motioned to the steps and moved forward, her soft leather boots making no sound. The others followed, Bran painfully aware of loud his breathing seemed. There was a faint noise, like a hum, coming from the tower above them, echoing slightly against the stone walls, growing louder as they began to ascend. The faint light at the top grew brighter, and soon the hum had turned to the murmur of voices. Chanting came from above them, louder with each step through the shadows. Bran held the torch high, peering over Wyla’s shoulder as they climbed. She stopped suddenly, Bran almost walking into her. A faint snuffling sounded ahead.

“I think we’re--” Wyla’s whisper was cut short by a loud snarl, and something hurtled round the corner of the twisting staircase in the dark. It came too fast, Wyla’s shot only glancing before the furry form slammed into her, driving her against the wall. Part of it lashed at Bran, the sound of claws ringing against his sword as he raised it in defense of his head. Sasha barreled forward and drove her axe into the snarling mass, toppling it back, and Bran followed her with the killing blow as the wolf-man’s limbs sprawled wide, exposing it’s chest. Wyla scrambled up from the floor and groaned. Blood seeped through her tunic at the shoulder, the leather torn close to the collarbone. She tested her arm.

“You alright?” Oren glanced at the wound as he spoke. Wyla nodded.

“Yes. It’s not too deep but…” she grimaced as she moved her arm, “it’ll slow me down.” She raised her bow as an explanation of what she meant. Bran took her place at the lead, holding the torch up, as they fell back in line along the stairs. He had only made it a few steps when he stopped and turned.

“Does it seem a bit….quiet?” He exchanged a nervous glance with Sasha as he spoke. They all stilled, until the sputter of the torch was the only sound. The chanting had stopped.

“Damn.” Was all Oren said, before he braced his shield, raised his mace, and sprinted past Bran. It took a moment to register what had happened, to realize their enemy knew they were there, before they all bolted after the large man. They were almost at the top, heedless of the noise they made, when more of the beasts came from the faint daylight ahead. In the tight corridor, it was impossible to count how many. Ahead of him, Oren swung his mace, the light of the torch flashing on his shield. An arrow from Wyla’s bow whistled by Bran’s head as he leapt out of the way of one of the charging beasts, hamstringing it as it passed.

It was chaos in the narrow stairway, cramped enough to make a sword swing challenging. At one point Oren sent the body of one of the monsters tumbling down the stairs, and Bran had to leap over it, lest it carry him along. It was too close, and Bran found himself using his sword more in defense than anything else. Oren shouted something over the fray, and Bran saw Sasha throw her ax into the chest of one of the monsters, before something hit him from behind. He tumbled onto the stairs, spinning onto his back so as to face his attacker. The beast was too close for his sword, and he let it clatter from his grip, freeing both hands to push against the monster as it came down on him, jaws snapping so close to his face they sent droplets of spit into his hair. The creature snarled and snapped, it’s wolfish jaws clapping inches from his skin as he strained against it, pushing with all his might to hold it at bay. One of it’s heavy paw-like hands was on his chest, the other swinging at his torso. He felt a blow, followed by a sensation like a hot poker being run against his side. He cried out, and tried to get his knees under the beast to push it off. There was a loud yelp, and it buckled suddenly in his grip, yielding to the force of his arms as he pushed it off against the far wall and scrambled away across the steps. Oren stood over him, his warmace wet with the creature’s blood, a streak of it across his hard-lined face.

“Thank you.” Bran gasped and struggled to his feet, picking his sword back up. Sasha and Wyla were only a few feet ahead, and the monsters were still coming. Oren’s eyes flicked downward, and Bran followed his gaze to his own side. He took a deep breath and immediately wished he hadn’t as his ribs screamed in protest. The beast’s claws had gotten through his mail, and he could already feel warm wet blood against his ribs. It didn’t feel deep, but it burned like fire.

“Broken?” Oren asked as he swung his club into a snarling muzzle.

“No.” Bran wheezed slightly, then rallied and pushed further up the steps. He fell in behind Oren, the burly man’s shield waylaying the press of their attackers, the number of which Bran still wasn’t sure of. Sasha limped slightly beside him, her ax gone, wielding her shortsword and one of her daggers, her eyes full of fire. With a last push they broke free, leaping over the last few monstrous bodies, up the top of the stairs and into dazzling daylight.

Bran blinked, momentarily blinded, the sounds of fighting still surrounding him. He had the wits to swing his now useless torch into one of the dark shapes that flew at him, the burning end coming down across one of the beast’s faces, filling the air with the smell of charred hair. He swung more fiercely now, the fresh air and open room freeing his arm and the reach of his sword, as he ducked, dodged, and hewed at his enemies. Wyla felled the last of their attackers with an arrow before he had the chance to change his form. The man staggered back with the shaft protruding from his chest, and hit the wooden flooring of the open tower with a resounding thud.

The wood of the tower beneath their feet was covered with marks, ritual incantations and arcane runes forming a large circle in the tower’s center. At the circle’s heart was the only other figure besides them on the roof. He stood feet apart, strange purple light swirling around him, one hand raised to the heavens through which the light passed. His robes were of a deep violet, gilded trim running along the edges, a tall cap of the same color upon his head. His entire form shimmered slightly with a pale hue, as if he were almost transparent. His eyes had settled on them, a salacious grin on his face as he lowered his hand.

“Arugal.” Sasha whispered faintly, then with a yell charged forward.

“Wait!---” Bran called, but as he did Arugal splayed his palm towards them as if he were pushing on an invisible wall. A blast of purple light shone forth, hitting them like a tidal wave, splintering the wood beneath their feet and hurtling them back to tumble against the floor.

“Sasha!” Bran shouted as he staggered to his feet. Something warm and wet stung his right eye. He’d been struck on the brow, small, but messy, already a trickle of crimson running down his cheek. Sasha scrambled up next to him, a bloody lip but otherwise unharmed. Wyla and Oren had already found their feet.

“Damned mages.” Oren growled as he ran forward. Wyla was close behind, firing arrows that splinted before they reached Arugal, as if striking an invisible barrier. Bran ran behind Oren, ducking behind the man as Arugal thrust out a hand and sent glowing bolts towards them, shattering into light and dust as they struck Oren’s shield. Wyla leapt high in the air, loosing an arrow as she did, Oren lunging forward with Bran and Sasha behind him. Arugal sent out a blast of light that seemed to come from every direction at once, spinning Bran until he couldn’t tell which way was up, before he slammed into the wooden flooring. Oren tumbled down beside him. He couldn’t see Wyla or Sasha as he stared at the wooden planks and gasped, struggling to pull in the air that had been beaten from his lungs.

They couldn’t win this.

Bran gritted his teeth and struggled upright again, rejoining the fray in time to see a bolt of light narrowly miss Sasha’s head. He deflected another oncoming blast with his sword, the impact making the steel ring, sending heat down into his palm. Oren, with the help of his shield, got close enough to swing at the mage, narrowly missing before Arugal could send them all flying with a snarl and another blast of light. Bran rolled over on the wood and groaned. Oren was already up and charging again.

 _“We have to stop him.”_ Bran wheezed to himself, blinking blood out of his eye. His side ached as he found his feet again. The mage was toying with them, throwing each attack back, only occasionally making any attempt to strike a lethal blow. It wasn’t until one of Wyla’s arrows came within an inch of his head that his gleeful expression darkened, and he sent energy crackling through the floorboards like lighting. As it struck Bran he felt his teeth jar, his bones seemingly on fire. By the time it subsided, he had ended up on the floor again, this time all of his muscles screaming at him.

“ _Don’t give up.”_ A voice inside his head yelled. He looked at Sasha as she leaped forward again, seemingly undaunted. He thought about Anya, and the words of the fortuneteller. He thought about the beasts that were being set loose. They wouldn’t stop. Arugal wouldn’t stop. “ _Things that go bump in the night.”_ He recited what he had heard so many times as a child, growing up and finding names for the monsters that took people and the things that had frightened him. He gave a loud yell, wrapped both hands around his sword, and leapt forwards.

Arugal’s eyes settled on him, and the mage hurtled what looked like a shimmering arrow, conjured from nothingness, whistling towards him. The shot never reached it’s target. More happened in an instant than Bran could have ever hoped to recall. Oren’s massive form leapt into the path of the bolt, his shield shattering into a thousand pieces, but the man hadn’t even been looking at Arugal, he was looking at Bran.

Oren’s right hand was free of his warmace, and he held it out towards Bran, his mouth moving, soft words Bran couldn’t make out, as the splintering purple light from the arrow pierced through the older man’s torso in a dozen places. Bran couldn’t even cry out, for from Oren’s open hand a gold light had blazed, and suddenly Bran was aloft, leaping through the air, his skin shimmering with gilded light, feeling stronger than ever before. Energy seemed to course through him as he leapt over Oren, the man driving his fist into the ground as he collapsed, sending a wave of golden light that shattered Arugal’s barrier like a piece of glass. Bran was only feet away, he could see the shock on the mage’s face as Arugal realized what had happened only a moment too late. Bran hurtled forward, his body still aglow, his sword shimmering as he passed through the remains of the barrier and drove his blade into Archmage Arugal’s chest.

The very air seemed to shudder, the gold light flashing into nothing at the point of impact, the specterly figure of Arugal’s spirit dissipating with a long wail. Bran staggered where he stood, his sword falling free as the body it had pierced disappeared in a mist of ash and smoke. All went quiet. Bran stared at where the figure had been, his mind feeling frozen as he realized, they had won.

He spun on his heel, letting his sword clatter to the ground, sprinting to where Oren lay sprawled. Wyla was already there. Bran skidded to a halt and dropped to his knees, rolling the big man over as gently as he could. Sasha came up behind them and knelt as Oren’s eyes slowly focused on Bran. Bran tried not to look at the man’s torso, spotted with burns from all the places the energy had passed through him.

“Oren.” He didn’t know what to say. What could he say? He gritted his teeth. Oren offered a small smile, his face so suddenly less lined than Bran had ever seen. The man’s eyes unfocused, his expression slackened, and his head slowly dropped to rest against the wood.

“Oren.” Bran couldn’t keep his voice from cracking as he spoke, desperately resisting the urge to shake the man. Make him get up. He heard a sharp inhale from Wyla and turned to see a single tear trace the fine line of her cheek. He didn’t know what to do. He knelt. Feeling equally dumbfounded and useless, as he sat and stared at his friend’s body. He couldn’t have told how long he sat there either, only that it could never have felt long enough, before Sasha gently tugged his shoulder.

“They’re coming. We need to go.” She whispered. Bran looked at her in confusion for a moment before he realized she was referring to the cultists on the island. Bran looked back to Oren. Sasha was right. They needed to go.

“Here. We can’t go back the way we came. There’s too many.” Wyla drew a length of rope from her belt as she spoke, blinking up at the sky to clear her eyes before she set to work trying it around an old flag post. Bran couldn’t seem to pick himself up. Finally Sasha stood across from him and held out a hand, her expression sad but gentle. After a moment’s hesitation he took it, and she helped lift him to his feet. The three made their way to the edge of the tower, Wyla leading the way, climbing down the stone side with the aid of the rope. Bran went last, his eyes lingering on Oren’s body, as long as he dared, until the sound of the cultists reached the stairs, and he turned his back to clamber down the walls with the others.

They stole through the forest to the shore as the sun sank, the sound of wolves setting speed to their strides as the cultists begane to search the forest. The fisherman was thankfully where he promised to wait, and they sprinted along the beach to the boat, howls coming from the trees behind them. Once aboard they all rowed, setting as much open water between them and the island as they could, as fast as they could. Even long after the shape of the island had disappeared in the fog of the coming night, they kept a watchful eye behind them. They spoke no words as they travelled, the only sounds the splash of the oars and lapping of the waves. They did what little they could do to see to their wounds, and found more adequate care when they returned to the fishing camp. They sat in silence as their hurt was tended, Bran staring out at the sea as he held a wrapping of cloth to the nick at his temple.

It was a quiet night. The first in some time, the fishermen said. No howls could be heard from across the water, the wind was soft, and the stars shone like little pinpricks of light. Bran and the others sat around the fire, grateful for a hot meal, accompanied by the distant sound of waves and occasional hoot of an owl. Bran tried to keep his mind from straying to Oren, but it was useless. He tried not to imagine where his body was, what had happened to it. The grizzled veteran had seemed a constant, like the jagged rocks of the shore standing stubborn against the ocean’s blows. Bran had known him longer than he had known Wyla, and somehow always thought he would simply endure. Oren had that nature to him.

There was no celebration, despite their victory. There was only relief, relief and loss. Word would spread soon and quickly, word that the shade of Arugal had been vanquished. The wolf cult had lost its leader, and the beasts could no longer strike out so fearlessly and in such numbers. Perhaps Silverbrook and Solstice Village might even be retaken, turned back into thriving places where loggers, hunters and trappers could find a home. No one would know what had happened on the island. No one would know of the adventurers who helped thwart the Lich King’s plans. No one would know of the man who died there.

Something moved to Bran’s right and drew him out of his stupor as he stared at the fire. It was Wyla, coming to sit on the log next to him.

“I don’t think he would have wanted to go any other way.” She spoke softly. It was the first words any of them had said. All Bran could do in return was nod. Sasha looked at them from across the fire.

“How did he do it?” She asked over the flames. “How did he break that barrier? I saw…..I don’t really know what it was.” Her eyes searched them both.

“He was a Paladin.” Bran sighed, and couldn’t help but smile lightly as he answered. “He never told us. Might not have told anyone.”

“But if he could do that sort of thing, why wait until then? Why not use it at the cave? Or before?” Sasha asked.

“Knowing Oren, he was likely a reluctant Paladin.” It was Wyla who answered this time. Her comment brought a small, sad chuckle to Bran’s lips as he pulled up a memory of Oren, looking grumpy and grizzled, always the skeptic, often the pessimist.

Sasha nodded and returned her gaze to the fire. They spent the rest of the night in silence. That night, finally too tired to dwell on his thoughts, Bran found his first deep and restful sleep since the night of the wagon attack. He didn’t wake until after dawn, easing his tunic over the bandages on his side and gingerly emerging from his tent.

He had nothing of Oren’s possessions, and there was no body to burn. He walked in silence to the sea, choosing a large smooth rock, and blunted his dagger carving Oren’s name into it. He left it on top of one of the stony crags that jutted from green turf of the cliffs to meet the sea, and sat there as the sun climbed higher into the sky.

“Thank you.” Was all he could think to say, his words in the wind, as he turned his back and returned to the camp. Sasha had already saddled her horse, and looked about to leave. Wyla had saddled hers. Thankfully, Bran saw, the elf had readied his horse as well. Sasha spotted him as he approached and walked to meet him.

“So. Guess this is it.” Sasha tried for a small smile but it didn’t last.

“You know,” Bran glanced to where Wyla stood with the horses as he spoke, “you’re welcome to come with us. You’re a good fighter.” Sasha blushed a little.

“And what would I do? Hopefully not hunting wolf-monsters.”

“Mostly protection details, occasional bounties. Sometimes something exciting, though this past week would be hard to surpass.” Bran answered with a grin. Sasha laughed.

“Thanks. But I have to see to my own. I have a little sister to collect. Hopefully she didn’t cause to much mischief.”

“Well, if you ever feel the need to travel Grizzly Hills a bit more, you’re welcome.” Bran couldn’t hide a bit of disappointment from his voice. Sasha smiled. Silence came, suddenly, awkwardly, as they stood there. Finally Bran spoke.

“Thank you. For helping us.” And he moved as if to go to where Wyla stood, but Sasha caught his arm.

“No. Thank you. All of you. For your help and for letting me come with you.” She pulled Bran into an unexpected hug, careful of his ribs. He stood for a moment before remembering he was supposed to hug back, and gently wrapped his arms around her.

“Take care Brandon.” She pulled away and gave a sad smile, leaving him standing as she walked to her horse and mounted. The beast gave a snort, and she turned to him and Wyla. “I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.” She smiled again, and Bran couldn’t help but smile back. Wyla gave a respectful nod, almost a bow, and Sasha turned her horse and galloped off across the grass. Bran watched after her for a long time.

“Ready?” Wyla mounted up. Bran took one last look at the frothing sea, and swung himself onto his horse.

“Where to?” He asked as he pulled his cloak in against the wind and checked the straps that held his sword across his back.

“Did you forget? There’s someone we owe a favor.” Wyla cocked an eyebrow as she spoke.

“Oh dear, how could I have?” Bran couldn’t keep a bit of sarcasm from his voice.

“Whatever it is let’s hope it’s less action than what all this has been.” Wyla eased her horse into a walk. “You never know with Ruuna.” She grinned.

“Lead the way.” Bran gave a melodramatic nod as he set his horse into a trot. They passed through the green fields, heading towards the thick line of evergreen trees that marked the start of the forest. Wind whistled in the pines, a hawk called from above, and somewhere away to the north, a light snow began to fall.


End file.
